


we are warriors

by thelostcolony



Category: Phillip Pullman: His Dark Materials, The Musketeers BBC
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, I'm literally so proud of this, Let's pretend Taboo doesn't really exist, Other, Phillip Pullman's: His Dark Materials AU, There's a lot of friendship going on and the break of Taboo, because no one seems to heed it, daemon AU, daemon au of all of season 1, daemons can change after they settle sorta, don't worry it all ends up making sense in the end, everyone is whumped slightly in some way here, past/present switches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 22:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5557292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelostcolony/pseuds/thelostcolony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Are you sure about this?" Astraea says, staring up at him. They're standing at the very entrance into Paris, noises and sights and smells already sinking in, taking hold. Her eyes are the color of sunlit whiskey.</p><p>"I have to do this," d'Artagnan clips, something hot boiling under his skin. He can't bear to look at her- not since she's changed. It's weird and different and he's different, some part of him twisted and strange and wrong, but he doesn't tell her that. (Daemons don't change, they aren't meant to once they've settled, they only change after something goes wrong, some part goes missing-)</p><p>Even though he doesn't say any of this to her, when she huffs and flicks her tail disdainfully at him, he's sure she already knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we are warriors

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys. So I've been working on this since about March of 2015; it's gone through so many cuts, tweaks, and edits, but it's finally done and I'm actually really, really proud of it. I hope you guys like it just as much. This is probably not going to be the end of the Daemon AUs I post on here, especially about Musketeers, so if you like this I hope that you look forward to some more!

* * *

**_We Are Warriors_ **

"Are you sure about this?" Astraea says, staring up at him. They're standing at the very entrance into Paris, noises and sights and smells already sinking in, taking hold. Her eyes are the color of sunlit whiskey.

"I have to do this," d'Artagnan clips, something hot boiling under his skin. He can't bear to look at her- not since she's changed. It's weird and different and _he's_ different, some part of him twisted and strange and _wrong_ , but he doesn't tell her that. (Daemons don't change, they aren't meant to once they've settled, they only change after something goes _wrong_ , some part goes _missing-_ )

Even though he doesn't say any of this to her, when she huffs and flicks her tail disdainfully at him, he's sure she already knows.

**~oOOo~**

It was raining, the horses struggling through the mud created by the downpour. As they picked up their feet the mud made slimy, sucking sounds, as if it were trying to trap the horses' hooves to prevent them and their riders from going any further. As it was, the horses- in response to their riders' determination- were too tenacious to allow the mud to properly warn them, and ripped their hooves free to continue on.

Astraea was curled up in d'Artagnan's shirt, pressed against the bare skin of his chest, the rhythm of his heart against her cheek. "How much longer?" She asked him, her cold nose shoved into the hollow where his collarbone dipped into his neck.

D'Artagnan laughed, shaking his head. Raindrops fell from his limp hair onto her big ears, making her shiver and pull them back against her head. "About a day's ride," he answered, frowning when he noticed her chagrin. "If we ride through the night we can be there by morning."

Astraea grumbled quietly, tucking impossibly further against him. Her bushy tail was pushed into one of his coat sleeves and pressed alongside his arm, and was already wet from the rain seeping through the fabric.

D'Artagnan teased softly, "you're not _cold_ , are you?"

Astraea stuck her head out of his tunic just enough so he could truly see the intensity of the glare she was sending him.

D'Artagnan's frown deepened, creases forming around his eyes. "I can ask them to stop for the night, perhaps?" He suggested, and Astraea sighed, tucking her face back against his chest, her tail twitching unhappily.

D'Artagnan, likely sensing her discomfort (the same discomfort as his, but he had always been able to handle this sort of thing better than she) wrapped his arms more securely around her, bending lower so the rain hit the back of his head and dripped down his back rather than onto her. He shivered as it crept down his spine and chilled him, but said nothing.

"You don't have to do that," Astraea said quietly, still uncomfortably wet. Water was leaking into her ears, but she couldn't shake them out without exposing them to more rain. "I'm fine."

D'Artagnan's eyes darted to his father, slumped over his horse's neck and bowed with exhaustion, his daemon clutching onto his shoulder with a bruising grip to stay put in the lashing wind.

"It's alright, dearheart," he told Astraea, wincing as the cold pads of her feet pressed against his torso for warmth. "Father looks nearly done with this weather too. I'm sure he'll appreciate a stop."

Astraea nodded weakly, and d'Artagnan squinted through the dark, silent for a time. Through the onslaught of whipping wind and pouring rain, d'Artagnan thought he could see the lights of an inn a little ways ahead, the image growing clearer as they approached.

He took a deep breath and called, "Come on, you're tired, Father. We should stop here."

His father jerked in the saddle, straightening abruptly, Quasale shifting on his shoulder. They had been together for so long that they were completely in sync, so much so that when Alexandre moved, Quasale could stay completely balanced.

"Paris is only a few hours away," his father called in response, voice elevated to better be heard.

"It's okay, d'Artagnan," whispered Astraea. "Really."

D'Artagnan ignored her, reasoning,"Paris will still be there in the morning."

Alexandre let out a chuckle and declared, "look, I could ride all night...but if you're saying you need a rest-!"

The statement was left dangling as Alexandre pulled ahead, leaving his smiling son to trail after him as they approached the inn.

The sky crackled in warning.

D'Artagnan ignored it.

**~oOOo~**

"I told you sleeping with her was a bad idea," growls Astraea as d'Artagnan frantically pushes over the dresser so it blocks the door, head whipping around to find a way out. "If you actually ever _listened_ to me-"

"Not now, Astraea!" D'Artagnan snarls, body bent low as he glares at the window. He knows it's what he has to do, that it's his only way out, and they're about to force their way in-

He breaks into a sprint and crashes through the glass, landing in a shower of shards and sharp pain and scrambling to get his feet under him as he takes off, barely registering the fact that Astraea is hot on his heels; he ducks into the marketplace with stumbling, sloppy movements, all too aware of the shouts accompanying the party following him, and there's a half-formed plan in his head, a reckless, stupid one as he spots the rather beautiful girl standing nearby-

"I'll give you five livre to kiss me," he gasps out and then he's kissing her, his lips pressed against hers, the pounding of his pursuers' feet loud as they pass behind him. He breaks away breathlessly, hands still on either side of her face as he says in awe, "that- that actually worked-"

"Oi, you degenerate!" The young woman chokes out as she rears back her arm and slaps him with all her might, making him take several clumsy steps backwards as she throws off his balance. When he rights himself it's to find her levelling a knife at his throat, barking, "touch me again, and I'll gut ya' like a fish!"

D'Artagnan licks his lips and takes another step backwards, nearly tripping over Astraea. In irritation she clamps her teeth down on his wrist, and in anger he kicks her away, ignoring her quiet yelp and the resulting flare of pain in his own side.

"Do I look like a workin' girl to you?!"

He's so disoriented for a moment he doesn't know what she's asked so he nods, but it's the wrong thing to do; the woman takes a huffing, annoyed breath and grits, "this is my best dress! How does this say 'prostitute' to you?!" and oh, he's made a mistake, and figures he should probably retreat before he insults her any further.

"Ah, my apologies, Mademoiselle-"

"It's _Madame-_ "

"Madame!" He hastens to correct, sucking in a lungful of air. "I won't trouble you any further." He turns, clutches at his side when it twinges in tenderness, taking small, slow steps to lessen the tug on it. He's suddenly acutely aware of how dizzy he is, the world tilting dangerously with each steps he takes, but the people at the inn can't be far away and he needs to find someplace to hole up for a while until he can find his way to Musketeers' Garrison to confront Athos.

"Are you alright?" The girl asks, voice laced in concern as her vexation is apparently forgotten, and d'Artagnan would smile (she truly was very pretty) but her words seem far away and distant, like he's gone very far in such a short amount of time.

He opens his mouth to respond but he trips forwards, and pain like he's never known lances its way through his chest, so agonizing that he's nearly brought to his knees, a muffled grunt forcing its way up his throat as he hits the ground _hard_ , wondering where Astraea is, the pain making the edges of his vision go dark-

**~oOOo~**

He chased her through a meadow, daemons nearby prancing in delirious happiness around each other as their humans danced, two bodies molding into one under the white streaked sky. She pulled him down when they became dizzy and they lay in golden grass, and he threaded his fingers into her daemon's hair, ran a thumb down the bridge of his nose when he pressed up into Athos' hand. She did the same with Eris (and oh, the purrs rumbled under her skin; she had never been happier in her life than she was right now, surrounded by them, pressed against them).

"Never change," he said, and she smiled.

**~oOOo~**

"Did you see that, Constance?" Quinn whispers into her ear, his warmth pressed into the back of her neck. "Did you see? In the marketplace? He _kicked her."_

"Shush," she tells him, wetting the cloth once more and placing it back against the young man's forehead. She doesn't even know his name, and yet he's captured her attention like no one else has- not even her husband. That's a silly thought and it pains her to think it, but it's true.

"He kicked his daemon and forgot about her," Quinnallian argues, and Constance purses her lips. "That's not the makings of a stable person, Constance. And his daemon is a _fox-_ you know that that means _something bad-_ "

"Hush now," she commands, and Quinn falls silent, quietly simmering as he jumps from her arm to the bed, studying their guest's face cautiously. He has a nice face, Constance finds herself thinking; gentle now that it's smoothed out. The creases of pain around his eyes have eased, the lines around his mouth gone, softening his expression. He doesn't look dangerous or manipulative or cunning; nothing like people with fox daemons should. "Hush now," she says again as she moves aside a stray lock of hair that has slipped into his eyes.

She glances down at his feet, where his daemon lays. She's still and unmoving, a blob of red amidst the grey of the room, curled up and quiet. Worry pricks at her, harder that it should, and she tries to bat it away unsuccessfully. Quinn looks at her with big brown eyes as he noses along the other daemon's snout, careful not to touch her.

"He kicked his daemon, and then forgot her," he repeats. "He's not normal."

Constance opens her mouth as if to respond-

But then the young man is up and moving and he's so abrasive, rude and unthankful as he scrambles around to pull on his boots and his shirt and doesn't even apologize for his appalling behavior.

"You're a beautiful woman," he dismisses. "I'm sure you're used to it."

She huffs and crosses her arms."I should have just left you in the gutter," she tells him, refusing to look at him.

He turns to her and she looks up, and his eyes are soft and fractured and hurt. "My apologies," he says. "I'm not always so ill-mannered. May I inquire the name of my savior?"

Against her better judgement, she feels herself softening. "Bonacieux," she responds. "Constance Bonacieux. And this is Quinn." She gestures to her daemon, balancing precariously on her shoulder. D'Artagnan spares him a smile, and it warms him from the tip of his nose to the tip of his tail.

He looks down at his own daemon, who doesn't look back. They aren't touching. He looks back at Constance. "Athos killed my father, Constance," he says quietly. "That's why I must face him." He hesitates. "I'm d'Artagnan. Please think kindly of my name, if you think of it at all."

Then he turns on his heel and whisks away, and he's off to fight Athos at the Musketeer Garrison, and it's suicide and she knows it, and his fractured eyes stay with her as she watches his battered form make the wrong turn in the street.

"He isn't normal, all right," she murmurs softly, donning a coat and her hat and turning the right way in the hopes she can beat him there. "He's got no self preservation; he's goin' to get himself killed."

"Constance," Quinn hisses in rebuke. "No."

As she steps out of the house, she ignores him.

**~oOOo~**

It wasn't as if the stares bothered him.

Once, perhaps they would've- back when he was self-conscious and young and awkward around women, stumbling through his flirtations and doing his best to look charming even when he knew he looked flustered. Back then, he would've sputtered under the many pairs of eyes on him that remained trained on him even once he was down the street.

She had always been so wounded when he'd duck his head- like he was ashamed of her, even when he assured her he wasn't. He didn't like the attention; hadn't known how to embrace it. "It's alright," he assured Kaelyn, his lips curling up into a smile as he stroked her nose. Still, she was hurt, and he could feel her sensitivity deep in his chest.

So he grit his teeth and learned how to enjoy it, how to lift his head high and look confident as their eyes followed him, trailed after her. He learned how to flirt without cringing, learned to look endearing when he was flustered. It worked. He held his head high.

"Thank you," whispered Kaelyn.

"Of course," said Aramis warmly. "I'd do anything for you."

**~oOOo~**

Athos is numb by the time they fetch him and bring him out into the courtyard, Eris clutching tightly to his shoulder. They had been separated for the night- far enough to ache deep in their chests but close enough that that was all it remained- an ache. Now, Eris is huddled into him, close enough that he can feel her feathers brushing against his cheek. She would never admit it, but he can feel her fear swirling in the pit of his stomach, a nausea worse than any caused by drinking. He wishes he could take his numbness and give it to her. It would be of more use to her than it is to him.

They're both chained to the wall- Athos by his wrists and Eris by her ankles, but she is permitted to remain on his shoulder. The man's eyes soften when he cuffs her with gloves on, his own daemon skirting closer to his legs. Their pity means nothing.

"Take aim!"

The line lift their muskets, shoulder them against their chins. He shouldn't feel as ready as he does because he truly does not want to leave this life, his friends, his brothers. He should not be so eager to greet death, to see her in it, to be with her, because she was the one who tore away his life in the first place. He can't help it, though, the memories; he has no ale to drown them out nor friends to substitute them with- it's just he and Eris and pistols and their looming death, the death he shouldn't want, shouldn't want-

Eris presses her forehead to Athos' temple and whispers, "oh, Olivier, _Olivier-"_

It's the last straw, and Athos clenches his eyes shut and shouts: "Come on _shoot_ , damn you!"

"HOLD YOUR FIRE!"

Eris lets out a shuddering breath that brushes against the stubble on Athos' cheek, and Aramis descends the stairs, holding up a piece of parchment. "If I were you, I wouldn't be in such a hurry to die," he advises, then explains, "your release, signed by the King." He passes it off to the squad commander and snags the keys from his other hand.

Aramis bends close to them as he unlocks Athos, head bowed low in concentration, his hat hiding his face. "Come now, Eris," he says quietly as he removes her chains, fingers gently smoothing out stray feathers. "You weren't afraid, now, were you?" His voice is teasing but kind.

Eris clatters her beak at him and nips his cheek, but she flutters her wings in thanks. Athos gives Aramis the strongest smile he can muster, glancing between him and Porthos.

"I'd thought I'd finally shaken you lot off," he says wryly, and Brinley snorts from Porthos' feet but says nothing.

"Believe me, there are other ways," Porthos assures and grins at him, and Eris clamps down on Athos' ear when he goes to reply. Some things don't need saying.

He's well aware of what the new boy- d'Artagnan- has done for him, has risked to free him, and dips his head in thanks when he passes. When he meets death, he'd like it to be on his own terms; it has been made painfully clear to him that even firing squad would be too noble a death for him.

"One foot in the grave already," Eris murmurs to him.

Even as he feels d'Artagnan's radiant smile at his back, Athos can't help but agree.

**~oOOo~**

She was afraid.

Today, she was supposed to feel beautiful- she knew she was. She was supposed to be happy- overjoyed, even; today was supposed to be the day that she started her life, that she learned how to be a woman. Today was supposed to be a happy day.

Angrily she wiped the tears from her cheeks in annoyance- at herself and at her weakness. Today she was supposed to feel lucky. Today she was supposed to feel blessed.

Everyone had told her these things, and yet no one had mentioned how trapped she would feel. Her wrists held a phantom ache of shackles that had never been there before but soon she would never escape.

"Constance," whispered Quinn, tucked into the back of her wedding dress. "Constance, I don't want to do this. Please, don't make me."

There was a lump in her throat that she didn't know how to clear in order to speak and reassure him. She couldn't even reassure herself. "It'll- it'll be alright, Quinn," she managed, choking back her tears. "It'll- it's going to be fine. He's- he's a well off man, Quinn. We'll be provided for."

"I don't care," said Quinn thickly. "I don't care, Constance; I don't care."

"Shh," she hushed, wishing she could reach up and stroke down his back. He was tucked into her wedding dress and hiding against the back of her neck, so she couldn't reach her arm all the way back. She settled for patting his head softly. "It'll be alright."

Quinn whimpered and the sound made something inside her twinge, as if someone had reached in and plucked at her heartstrings. "How do you know?"

Constance couldn't force herself to answer.

She hated lying to him.

**~oOOo~**

"Prisoners escaping!"

Aramis is thrown into the fray as prisoners stream from the entryways to the Chatelet, unsheathing his sword as daemons and humans alike rush at him as if to overcome him, frantically searching the faces of each before he strikes them down to ensure he doesn't accidentally injure d'Artagnan. Kaelyn slams her hooves down against the cobbles, the noise bouncing off the walls as she attacks, golden dust bursting forth and lighting up the courtyard in a mosaic of sunbeams.

"Aramis!" Kaelyn shouts, and Aramis whirls around just in time to redirect the man's musket so it's no longer pointed at the mass of men.

"Don't shoot!" Aramis commands. "There's a Musketeer in there!"

There's a shout from the other end of the courtyard, the clatter of gunfire, and then there's a hush, and as Aramis turns, his blood runs cold. "Aramis," Kaelyn whispers, and he swallows, his eyes wide.

"Stop," orders Vadim quietly, unnecessarily, pressing the barrel of a pistol to the Queen's temple. At their feet, Vadim's coyote daemon has its jaws locked around the neck of the Queen's daemon, who bends at an odd angle to compensate. One move and the Queen's daemon is killed- and so is she. "Or your Queen dies."

Tréville and Athos share a look as Eris snarls on Athos' shoulder, and Kaelyn huffs a breath through her nose, eyes narrowing. Aramis shifts where he stands, his sword clenched his his hand as he meets d'Artagnan's gaze; he's got a cut on his cheek that's bleeding sluggishly- earned after he entered the Chatelet- but it doesn't look serious. Even so, it makes Aramis' blood boil, restarting the flow of it again. Now that the initial flood of fear has gone, furious protection is quickly taking it's place.

"Open the gate," Vadim says calmly, and Tréville looks to d'Artagnan.

It's Astraea, however, who meets Tréville's eyes and nods.

"Do as he says," Tréville agrees reluctantly, and the Musketeers standing behind him begin to raise the gate.

"You see," Vadim says, grinning as he turns back to a pale-faced d'Artagnan. "I told you they'd let me walk out of here."

D'Artagnan wets his lips. "Hurt the Queen and we're all dead," he says, and Vadim scowls at him. "You don't need her anymore, Vadim. _Let's go."_ D'Artagnan's voice hushes in nervousness as he desperately tries to sound steady, in control. Unafraid.

Vadim grins a jackal's grin. "Your Majesty, my apologies," he breathes, and she shudders. A tear escapes and rolls down her cheek, and it makes Aramis' chest ache. "I hope that, apart from this, you've enjoyed your trip." He presses his lips lewdly to the tear on her cheek, licking it clean as he releases her. At their feet, his daemon tosses the Queen's aside and bounds after its human, cackling madly in the way coyotes have.

"SHOOT THEM! DON'T LET THEM ESCAPE!"

The gunfire begins once more and the Queen stands there in the middle of it, panic written across her face as she begins to sob, and Aramis doesn't think as he breaks into a sprint and crashes into her, toppling them both and pinning her to the ground, covering her body with his own. Kaelyn's footsteps echo behind his and he feels a jolt as she rips the Queen's daemon away from the action to the very edges of their reach, where an ache begins in his chest from their distance.

He looks down at the Queen, her eyes screwed shut as another tear escapes. Tenderly, he wipes it away with his thumb. "Look at me," he says softly. "Hey, look at me." She turns to him with wide, frightened blue eyes, the color of a clear sky. They're full of fear and trust and they're seeking reassurance, and he tightens the hold he has around her, soothing, "it's over. I've got you."

She wets her lips, her eyes still moist. They're clearer than they were, however, and it takes a moment for the lack of gunfire to register in Aramis' mind.

"So you have," she answers softly, and her brows furrow. "You're hurt," she adds, and gestures gently to the cut behind his ear.

He smiles. "It's alright, Your Majesty," he says. "Come. Let us get you to safety."

**~oOOo~**

"Oh," said Astraea, canting her head. "This is it."

D'Artagnan twitched curiously as he felt something slot in his bones, like there'd been some sort of weight missing that, now there, felt completely natural. "Huh," he said, and turned to look at her. She was looking at him with a shy expression on her face- almost hesitant. "What?" He asked, brows furrowing in concern. "What's the matter?"

She shrugged as well as she could, big ears flopping around. "I don't know," she said quietly, eyes downcast. "You just don't seem...happy." His brows furrowed further, and he ducked his head so he could see her eyes, see what she was thinking. They were _hurt_. Fractured.

She was afraid; afraid that he wasn't going to accept her. But how could he not?

"It's okay," he assured, smiling as he opened his arms in invitation- because he could feel her fear of rejection and the uncharacteristically timid quaking of her body. They were silly little things. He loved her- it was as simple as that.

She leapt into his arms and tucked herself up, shoving her nose into the dip between his neck and collarbone, rubbing one huge ear against his chin in self-reassurance. He tightened his arms around her, shielding her quietly from the rest of the world so that it was just the two of them, that they were just themselves, and they were just together.

"It's alright," he repeated softly, running a hand down her small back. She was so little, slotted in his arms, her tiny paws pressing lightly against his chest. "It's alright. I'll love you no matter what, dearheart."

"Promise?" She asked, sounding very small, her big eyes meeting his as her ears flopped forward. Her features were almost too big for her face, making her look fey and elfin. Something swelled in his chest, fond and loving- she had no need to fear, and he wished she'd trust that. He'd just have to assure her until she believed it. He didn't mind.

"I promise," he answered, summoning all the sincerity in his heart. "I promise."

**~oOOo~**

Porthos and he stand side by side, awkwardly holding their hats to their hearts, their daemons standing at attention. Aramis bounces idly on the balls of his feet.

"The way I look at it," Porthos says after a few more moments of silence, "you saved her life, so she's probably grateful."

Aramis hums in acquiescence, but after another minute counters, "but we did put her in danger in the first place, so she might want to see us whipped."

"Aramis!" Kaelyn hisses from his side, and Brinley makes an unhappy chirruping noise from Porthos' feet at Aramis' cheek.

Porthos makes a sound at the back of his throat. "I hadn't thought o' that," he admits, and his brows scrunch together as a pout rises to his lips. "Oh, you've upset me now."

Before Aramis can respond, the double doors open as the Queen enters, and both he and Porthos bow as she declares, "Monsieur Aramis! Bravest of the all the King's Musketeers!"

Aramis smiles, meeting her eyes. "Only amongst the greatest, Your Majesty," he says humbly, and Porthos raises an eyebrow at him as they straighten.

The Queen's gaze flits from Aramis to Porthos and back again, and she clears her throat softly. "Perhaps your friend would grant us a moment's privacy?"

Porthos looks to Aramis then to the Queen, bows, and he and Brinley make their exit.

Immediately once they've gone, Anne's eyebrows scrunch together in worry, a little line forming between them as her lips crease. Aramis' eyes soften. "Does it hurt?" She asks, her fingers brushing against the little cut he'd obtained when shielding her.

"Oh, not at all," he's quick to assure, but the look in her eyes has him yielding to his desires and he backtracks, saying softly, "well, perhaps it is- a little sore."

Anne's eyes melt even further, pools of bright blue, tender around the edges. "Poor, gallant Aramis," she simpers, her fingertips like feathers as they brush against the skin behind his ear. She straightens, her hand going to clutch at the cross around her neck, and she almost smiles as she lifts it from her neck. "Accept this gift as a token of your Queen's gratitude," she says, and gingerly places it around his neck, careful to avoid the cut, the corners of her lips curling into a smile. "May it keep you safe always."

He stares up at her, at her beautiful, lovely face, her glittering eyes, and can feel the spark in his chest that ignited when Kaelyn had touched her daemon, had lain over him to save him, and feels a faint thrum through the cross laying against his chest. He pretends quietly that it's her heartbeat echoing into his.

"You know," Porthos says from abruptly beside him, and he jumps as he shakes himself out of his stupor. He hadn't realized she'd gone, or that Porthos had returned. "You were givin' 'er The Stare."

"What stare?" It's clear Porthos doesn't buy his denial, and Aramis sighs as he admits, "she's a very attractive woman."

"Yeah, but she's not a woman," Porthos argues through gritted teeth. "She's the Queen."

"Or 'ave you forgotten abou' Adele Bessette already?" Brinley scoffs from Porthos' feet. Aramis glares at her defensively.

"Adele chose the Cardinal over me," he protests. "She left Paris!" Kaelyn nudges him in the shoulder firmly, reminding him to keep his voice down. Scowling, he lowers his voice. "It's not as if I'm choosing one over the other."

"You best not be choosin' at all," Porthos advises, and Brinley rolls her eyes. "Please, set your sights lower for all our sakes."

Aramis sighs and acquiences, bobbing his head.

But later, he can't stop feeling the beat of her heart through the cross around his neck, and can't find it in himself to take it off.

He's sure it'll be fine.

**~oOOo~**

The night was cold but the fire was warm, and the camaraderie made the wind less biting. The forest around them was soft and silent, little flakes of snow quietly slipping to the ground; despite this, the Musketeers were managing to remain dry, the trees providing ample shelter from the snow. The training exercise would be over within the next day, and Aramis suspected all of the new recruits would be glad to be out of the elements.

Humans and daemons alike were laughing as they sat around the campfire trading old mission stories for the recruits, who managed to add in their own spin to what would be considered mild tales- enough of a spin to make them entertaining.

Kaelyn stood from the icy ground and shook herself, a shiver running through her. "Oh, what's the matter, darling? Cold?" Aramis asked, and Kaelyn playfully tugged at his hair.

"Cold enough," she responded. "I'm ready to retire, if it's all the same to you."

"Hm," agreed Aramis, standing and brushing himself off too of the scarce snowflakes that had collected on his lap.

"Aw, Aramis," said Marsac, leaning casually against Malikha. "Retiring so soon? Don't tell me you're worn out from a little training session in your old age."

"If I'm old then _you're_ ancient, considering you're older than me," Aramis snarked, a grin pulling at his lips. "And hardly tired; it's the cold that's settling in my bones that makes me appreciate a warm tent and a soft bedroll."

"You'll mess up your back on those," Marsac dismissed. "I prefer the ground myself, honestly. And considering Malikha is pretty warm-" Malikha rumbled deep in his throat in agreement- "I can't understand the sentiment. But go on; go retire. You need all the beauty sleep you can get."

"That's just cruel," Aramis said flatly, and Marsac threw back his head and laughed. "If anyone needs the beauty sleep around here, it's you. How many women have you been with?"

"Would you truly like to hear of those exploits, Aramis?"

Aramis stopped, considering. "No," he decided, and smiled once more.

"Sleep well, my friend," Marsac said, and Aramis nodded.

"You as well."

**~oOOo~**

"It was a good trick," Vadim says. "It should've worked." Beside him, Narnicali nips his fingers softly in agreement.

Some of Astraea's rage trickles in through their connection, as distant as it is, and d'Artagnan closes the gap between them so he's near Vadim's ear. His voice is _almost_ a snarl. "It nearly did."

And then Narnicali shimmers and slowly dissolves into dust, hovering around them in the air for a few moments, casting everything in an ethereal glow that is unbefitting to a man like Vadim.

D'Artagnan absently reaches down to smooth the hair that's rucked up on Astraea's back, and jumps away hastily when she snarls at him, teeth flashing as she nearly rips his fingers off in one violent, lashing motion.

It's a warning, pure and simple and plain and painful, and d'Artagnan shakes it off, pretending not to notice the other men's glances branding the skin of his back and trying desperately to erase the terror that is surely in his gaze.

He must not succeed because Aramis outstretches a hand, beginning, "D'Artagnan-" but before he can get any further d'Artagnan brushes past him.

"I'm fine," he says curtly, trailing after Astraea with his head held two inches too high to be genuine confidence, but he can sense that the matter is dropped for now.

For all his appearances, d'Artagnan is deeply unsettled, something fluttering nervously in his chest that hadn't been there before. He'd known of her sudden dislike of him, of being near him, but he didn't think it had pushed so deep. Had his reflexes been a millisecond slower, she would have taken his fingers; perhaps even his whole hand.

She was wild, and it scared him, because it meant he was wild too.

He forces himself not to glance back at Vadim's crumpled form, the dust sprayed all around him like gold fluttering down from the heavens that was once Vadim's Narnicali; thinks about how closely those two beaten things could have been he and Astraea and shivers, and hopes that the Musketeers behind him don't notice the way he balls his hands into fists and shoves them into his jacket pockets, forcing himself to breathe.

After all, he thinks- foxes aren't much different from coyotes.

**~oOOo~**

"We trust him," Brinley reminded him quietly, gleaming eyes narrowed at the back of Charon's head.

"Sure we do," Porthos answered absently, hesitating where he stood, and Brinley snorted as she transfigured into a mouse to hide in his pocket. Porthos and Brinley had learned quickly on the streets about the daemon-snatchers, the _dust-seekers_ , and had come up with defenses accordingly that made Porthos feel at least a mite better. Brinley, of course, hadn't been the biggest fan of hiding- she was a brewing storm, a clap of thunder, a streak of lightning- quick and fast and ominous and _obvious_. This hiding away was driving her mad.

"Then why are you so nervous?" She asked, sounding smug.

"I ain't."

_"Liar."_

He forgot- he never could hide anything from her. Not for long. "He's just…" He sensed more than felt Brinley sigh, her grey fur soft against the calloused pads of his fingers. He felt her ears twitch against his palm. "It's just tha'...we can't trust 'im. Charon. He seems nice enough and 'e's been lookin' out for us so far, but we can't trust 'im."

"No," she said, and something inside Porthos twisted terribly, like it had been waiting to hear those exact words. "No," she repeated, nestling into his palm. "We can never trust anyone again."

**~oOOo~**

"Oh," Eris whispers as they come upon the house, wings fluttering weakly. "Oh."

Athos is silent. Something deep in his heart aches and he struggles to squash it, sickeningly forces himself to swallow it. It's hard to keep at bay with the shame that's swirling in his stomach but somehow he manages it, his face like stone.

Eris shifts, her wings shuffling once more, grief rising too quickly in her heart.

 _Now is not the time,_ he snaps, startling her enough that she jumps a little, claws digging into his shoulder in rebuke. He can't bring himself to care.

"Now then," Bonaire says, his daemon calmly perched on his shoulder. For all their rules, they aren't cruel, and after their time in the Chatelet separated Athos and Eris had been reluctant to inflict that on people, even someone as disgusting as Bonnaire.

Bonaire continues, unaware of his luck- or perhaps just unthankful for it. "This is lovely, isn't it?"

His insolence pricks at Athos and Eris both, and Athos refrains from punching Bonaire's too-pretty face in. Eris shows no such restraint, clacking her beak at him warningly as she leans off Athos' shoulder and clatters in his direction. Bonaire's daemon rears up and flares its wings in a show that is clearly meant to be intimidating, but Eris is ridiculously bigger, flaring her own so that they're nearly twice the size of Bonaire's daemon Sicaru's. Sicura scuttles away and bows low, pressing her face to the back of Bonaire's neck, and Eris clicks her beak in savage pleasure.

 _Parrots are weak creatures,_ she says fiercely in disgust. _But they're cunning._

She's referring to Porthos' earlier conversation with Bonaire, and they both know it. Porthos, for all of his positive attributes, is the cat who was killed by its own curiosity.

 _Now now,_ Athos responds mildly, calmer now that he's distracted. _Porthos can handle himself, you know. He's not an idiot._

 _He's been shot, Athos_ , Eris says heatedly, nipping his ear in irritation. It stings, but Athos doesn't complain, and they don't speak again for a while.

They take care of Porthos and Brinley, both of whom need patching up (nothing serious, which relieves both Eris and Athos in equal, unadmitted measures). D'Artagnan and Astraea are tense and skirt around each other, stubbornly avoiding confrontation of any sort, their muscles bunched as if they're going to attack one another. It's worrisome, and makes Eris uneasy.

 _Athos,_ she insists again for the third time, _they need help-_

 _D'Artagnan is not a child,_ Athos barks, and Eris falls silent in hot anger. _He needs no help from me._

 _They're broken,_ Eris argues.

 _Their problem,_ Athos replies, and Eris huffs.

D'Artagnan and he watch as Aramis works on Porthos' stitches in silence, one simmering and the other trying desperately to avoid his musings, occasionally forcing himself away from certain topics. D'Artagnan sighs, rubs at his face, and turns on his heel.

"And where are you going?" Athos asks dryly, unperturbed when d'Artagnan doesn't turn back around when he responds.

"Air," he explains curtly, and Astraea mutely, moodily follows, sending a look of pure annoyance at d'Artagnan's back.

"I told you," Eris murmurs, and Athos doesn't bother with an answer.

He just follows at a sedated pace, slow enough that he won't be seen, close enough to stop them both from doing something stupid. Caring hurts- or perhaps it's just because he's back in the house in which the last person he cared about in such a way was-

He cuts himself off, biting his tongue.

"Don't think about it too much," Eris tells him from his shoulder, digging her talons in so hard it's painful. "Don't think about it."

He tries not to, but a traitorous thought flits through his brain- _if parrots are so cunning, why wasn't Anne's daemon one?_

"Don't," says Eris sharply, nipping his ear so hard it draws blood. "Don't."

Athos doesn't complain.

**~oOOo~**

He jerked awake to the hissing of his name, starting violently and upsetting Kaelyn. _"Sh!_ " Hushed someone harshly as they seized him by the front of the shirt and thrusted his weapon to his chest, his musket alongside. "We have to move now!"

His mind finally caught up and he thrashed, freeing himself, pausing when he recognized Malikha's familiar shape in the darkness. _"Marsac?!"_ Aramis hissed, and Marsac shushed him curtly, drawing back the flap of the tent and peering out, musket at the ready. "Marsac, what's going on?!"

"Ambush," he responded shortly, and Aramis was immediately on alert, Kaelyn going from frightened to wired in seconds. Crouching low, Aramis crept forwards to peer out too, his eyes quickly accustoming to the darkness and plucking awkwardly sloped shapes out of the blackness. "Wait for my cue," breathed Marsac.

Then he charged, the gunfire echoing through the forest and upsetting the quiet.

The wind was biting as Aramis broke out of the tent and fired his own weapon, sending the nearest man down; immediately the camp was alive with activity, people scattering and falling and crying as they were struck down. Cries for mothers rang out into the night as clear as the gunshots and the forest was alight with bursts of golden light, daemons keening as they died-

And Aramis turned and couldn't find Kaelyn, couldn't find her-

And then there was pain in his side like he'd never known, and he was on the ground, and the forest was quiet.

When he came back to himself, Kaelyn was pressed against his side, flush against him as she keened, "oh, Rene, Rene-" as Marsac shuddered beside him, rocking, sobs escaping from his lips as he whispered, "it should have been me, it should have been me, it should have been-"

**~oOOo~**

"D'ARTAGNAN!" Astraea yowls at the same time d'Artagnan is leaping from his horse and then they're hurling themselves through the air, towards the flaming, smoking house. It's collapsing; the windows have already broken and half the roof has already sunken, and there's a woman slinking away, and d'Artagnan would love to go after her, find out what she wants, and he's _this close_ to following her-

"D'Artagnan!" Astraea screams as she throws herself against the door, unable to make it budge, and he turns his attention away from the woman's retreating form and back to the scorching house, towards the door that Astraea is trying to get through.

"Move," he commands, and she snarls at him, throwing herself against it again. It still won't open, and she's hurting herself, and d'Artagnan's patience is nonexistent. " _Move_ , dammit!"

Astraea does what she's told for once and scrambles out of the way, and d'Artagnan shoulders the door open, picking his way past it and immediately rearing backwards at the smoke and the ash that assaults him. "Athos," he shouts, squinting as he attempts to peer through the flames. Astraea comes up alongside him, covered in ash. "Athos, can you hear me?!"

He skirts around the debris, the ominous creaking of the house causing things to shift and fall, patches of burning ceiling collapsing by the second. The ground is aflame, fire licking at d'Artagnan's heels wherever he steps, so much so that he has to dance around to get anywhere; nevertheless, he slams down on his hands and knees, hissing and violently pushing himself to his feet when his hands begin to burn. He looks down. They're blistering.

"Astraea!" He calls over the crackling of burning wood, and she turns, her eyes ablaze. "Come."

She doesn't argue, merely leaping up into his waiting arms and tucking against his chest. The pads of her feet are burned, he notes, and guilt- hot and broiling- spills over into his chest.

Astraea bites his chin hard enough that blood erupts from the puncture wounds, and he rears away, nearly dropping her as he swears. "We need to find Athos and Eris," she barks when he turns raging eyes at her, and d'Artagnan shakes himself, dashing over another pile of burning furniture because she's right and there's nothing he can do about her now.

"Athos!" He shouts once more, inhaling the smoke-filled air and coughing as it invades his lungs and strangles him. "Athos!"

There's a choked off screech, a confused clacking sound- Eris. D'Artagnan spins on his heel, shielding his eyes when a sudden gust of wind from the broken windows causes sparks to fly up at his face. "Athos, Eris?!"

"d'Art-" more choking, a screech as she tries to clear her throat- "d'Artagnan?!"

"Eris!" He screams hoarsely, knocking himself against a table and leaving himself a long streak of burnt skin low on his hip. "Eris?" He spots Athos' prone figure on the ground and his heart leaps into his throat, and Astraea rips herself from his arms and bounds over to him, injured paws pressing against his chest as she bites at his shirt, tugging. She's trying to drag him. She's too little.

"My God- MOVE, ASTRAEA, DAMMIT!"

Astraea snaps at him and skirts away, hackles raised as she scruffs the feathers at the back of Eris' neck and lifts her like she would a kit, tail lashing as d'Artagnan struggles to hoist Athos over his shoulders. "Athos, it's me, it's d'Artagnan," he says when he's forced to let Athos slump to the ground. "Athos, get up. Come on, get up. GET UP!"

Athos stirs, mouth twisting into a grimace as he moves; nevertheless, he stumbles to his feet and, leaning dependently on d'Artagnan, he allows himself to be dragged. "Eris?" He asks, coughing, and d'Artagnan grits his teeth, distrust too high in his throat for his liking when he considers his answer.

"Astraea has her," he growls finally, and if Athos notices the bite to it, he says nothing. D'Artagnan drags the two of them out of the house just in time, and they collapse on the front lawn panting and scorched and covered in ash but safe, and sure enough there Astraea and Eris are, coughing but unhurt. Astraea is licking at Eris' feathers, checking for wounds, preening her like another bird might. Eris sits there and endures it, allowing the fox daemon to curl around her like she's being protected.

"We don't need this," Eris tells d'Artagnan, her eyes bearing straight into his as she casually breaks taboo, completely uncaring of the consequences. "We don't need this, d'Artagnan. We're fine."

D'Artagnan takes a deep breath- about to call Eris on her bluff. Astraea growls at him, eyes dark, and he pauses, his mouth open still as if he's still going to speak. "Yeah," he says. "You are."

Athos's gaze flickers to him from where it had been trained on the burning house. "We're fine," he repeats flatly.

Astraea nips his fingers, and Athos turns away.

**~oOOo~**

"Has she settled then, Porthos?" Flea laughed and Lukia barked, loud and merry, as he skipped around Brinley. Porthos felt it deep in his bones, only eleven years old- but Flea's daemon had settled when she was eight, much younger than any of the other Court children. That was alright; that was okay. Brinley and he, they looked out for Flea and Luke, and she and Luke looked out for Porthos and Brinley (especially Brinley, because Brinley was a spectacular sort of reckless) and so it was alright. It was okay. It wasn't like he could complain, after all; Flea was his only friend, and he liked having her.

His attention turning to Brinley, he studied her, a smile tugging at his lips. She was a mass of muscle just like he was, and she grinned at him and bounced, claws tapping on the ground as she pounced about and danced around Lukia.

"She's settled, yeah," he said, and felt the thin layer of _what's-it-called_ clotting thick over his skin, over his eyelashes, making him a man.

"What do you think then, Porthos?" Brinley grinned. "How do I look?"

She was always beautiful, his Brinley, but he admitted that out of all the things she could've settled as, this suited her best.

**~oOOo~**

"How, in _God's name_ , did he escape?!" Tréville roars, slamming his hands down against his desk.

Aramis and d'Artagnan shift nervously, their daemons standing behind them mutely.

Athos goes to great lengths to look completely unshaken. "We lost him in the grounds," he answers levelly, careful to keep his gaze away from his two other friends.

Eris sighs. _A pair of worse liars I've never seen._

Tréville raises an eyebrow, and Aramis adds, "he just, er, got away." He sounds nervous and edgy, and Kaelyn snorts quietly behind him, falling silent when Tréville's daemon stalks around to stare at her.

Tréville turns to d'Artagnan, who is clearly attempting to look as unconcerned as Athos and, just as clearly, is failing. "And you," Tréville says lowly. "You didn't see him either?"

D'Artagnan swallows. "I, um, slipped." From behind him, Astraea does her best to stifle a bark of laughter.

 _Start praying for them, Athos,_ Eris advises.

 _You know I'm not a religious man,_ Athos responds. _God wouldn't heed my words._

 _I don't think it matters at this point,_ she replies heavily. _The situation is desperate enough._

Tréville lowers his head in disbelief. "You. Slipped."

D'Artagnan wets his lips. "Wet grass?"

Tréville straightens and takes a sharp breath, his eyes bearing holes through d'Artagnan's skull. It looks painful, and Athos doesn't envy d'Artagnan his position. "There's a killer on the loose," Tréville growls, "and the security of the nation hangs _by a thread,_ but at least _little d'Artagnan_ didn't get _a nasty bruise."_

D'Artagnan winces, cringing.

"You're dismissed," Tréville spits. "All of you. Get out."

Athos doesn't think he's seen the two of them move faster in the whole time he's known them.

 _Is this when I start praying?_ Athos asks, and Eris sighs.

_Well, it's too late **now**._

**~oOOo~**

The first that Aramis notices? _Marsac's daemon has changed._

It shouldn't have as much an impact as it does; after all, Eris certainly changed, but Aramis doesn't know from what. He suspects Astraea, too, changed, but he isn't brave enough to ask about something so personal, and doesn't have the will to do so now. But Marsac knows he notices- how can he not? And it's something so jarring simply because he had never imagined Malikha could ever be anything else than what she'd settled as.

Aramis thought that it wouldn't be fair- to Fate, to God, to Marsac himself- if he didn't try to help Marsac this time. Marsac had saved his life in Savoy when he could have easily left Aramis for dead, but he didn't; even dragged him to safety after he'd been injured. Malikha had carried Kaelyn on her back. Marsac had cried.

But that Marsac died five years ago, and Aramis knows it. He can see it.

"This has to end here, Aramis," Marsac says, and Aramis desperately, desperately wishes he didn't have to do what he knows he must. "You know that."

He does know, and it's the worst feeling in the world.

He wets his lips, ignoring Kaelyn's wail as he forces himself to do it, to kill the last of his friends of Savoy, to kill the only living person who could understand the horrors he'd seen that day, the voices that fill his nightmares. "I'm sorry, old friend," he says, and he means it, and it hurts so much.

"Better to die a Musketeer than to live like a dog," Marsac wobbles, his eyes flickering to Malikha, who curls up with her head on his trembling chest, whimpering softly. Aramis purses his lips, trying to keep his emotions at bay- because she'd changed and Aramis had no longer trusted her because people like Vadim have jackal daemons, not honest people, not good people, not people who come out of things unscarred-

Kaelyn makes a noise at the back of her throat, whispering, "Marsac-"

Then Malikha bursts into golden dust and glitters like sunbeams, golden like the lion she once was as she rests delicately over her human, a final, protective layer against all the hate in the world.

Grief like he's never known flares in his chest because he is the last one, the last one to have witnessed hell, and Kaelyn presses against his side, flush against him as she keens, "oh, Rene, Rene-"

**~oOOo~**

"I don't like this, Aramis," Kaelyn murmurs to him as the clapping of pots and pans grows louder the further into the Court they venture. "I don't like this at all."

He knows- he can feel the nervousness swirling inside her. "It's alright," he says easily, picking his way around the stalls and watching his footing for any of the smaller daemons. They can stray far from their humans, the daemons of the Court. "We'll pop in and pop out. Easy as it comes."

From d'Artagnan's side, Astraea snorts.

They go a little ways further, the clapping of the pans growing faster and impossibly louder. "Why are they doing that?" Asks d'Artagnan, brows low on his forehead. His hand lays on the hilt of his sword; a sure indicator that he's nervous.

"It's a warning," explains Aramis, glancing up at the dour faces around them. "Do nothing unless you are attacked."

D'Artagnan wets his lips. "Where are we?"

"The Court of Miracles," Athos answers, eyeing the crowd warily. "Keep Astraea close, d'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan wets his lips once more- a nervous tick- and nods, jerking his head at his daemon until he can feel her warmth against his leg. Aramis turns back around and draws Kaelyn closer still.

The further into the Court they venture the farther the daemons wander, Aramis finds, and Lyn presses impossibly closer to his side, forcing him to sling an arm over her back as she makes her body flush with his. She's frightened- she's trembling. He tightens his arm.

Glancing over his shoulder, he finds Astraea curled into d'Artagnan's neck, bushy tail tucked into the front of his tunic as she dangles over his shoulders. Aramis is sure that she was something small before she changed; daemons, even slight like red foxes, don't cling like this if they're bigger than someone's forearm. (He has seldom seen them touch, and that they're doing so now speaks volumes.)

Beyond, Eris is as stoic as ever, glaring at daemons as they pass and snarling at the unwelcome strangers, but her wings are rustling on her back, restless. Aramis imagines there's something desperate and unsettled perched in Athos' chest (just as Eris is perched on his shoulder) and he knows they'll have to go back.

"Come," he says, looking up at the Court-goers, still clattering pots and pans warningly. "We can't stay here. It's too dangerous."

"What about Porthos?" Says d'Artagnan worriedly, his gaze flickering up nervously.

"He'll be safe for now," Aramis says reluctantly, his gut churning at the thought of leaving Porthos alone here, despite everything. Porthos can take care of himself, sure- but even so, it's hard. It feels too much like abandonment. He struggles through his next sentence- "He has friends here."

 _Rene,_ whispers Kaelyn.

 _We have to go, darling,_ he responds wearily, a few moments passing in silence. _It's alright._

They'll have to find Porthos another way.

**~oOOo~**

His son had finally strayed into the territory of 'impulsive'.

"Charles," sighed Alexandre as he drank in the sight of his youngest son standing in the foyer sopping wet, his face bloody and bruised and his hair stringy. "Come in and take off your coat."

Charles quietly obeyed, stripping himself of his jacket and overcoat, his undershirt miraculously dry despite the downpour. Alexandre fetched himself a rag from the kitchen and the warm water that was to be used for dinner from over the kitchen fire, pulling with him a chair. "Sit," he said, and his son did so wordlessly, watching his father with his one good eye, the other swollen shut- but even his opej eye was ringed in black and blue.

"Come out, Astraea," Alexandre said, and Astraea poked her little head out of the back of d'Artagnan's tunic, big ears weighed down by wetness. "Come."

Astraea didn't need to be told twice, coming forth and allowing herself to be swept up by Quasale and inspected for injuries as Alexandre wet his rag and gently pressed it against his son's wounds, wiping away some of the blood from them. "Goodness, Charles, what did you do? Duel with a prickle bush?"

His son smiled despite the pain. "No, Father. You only make that mistake once."

"Hmph," grunted Alexandre. "Hard to believe, my boy, since you can't seem to stay out of trouble for more than five minutes."

"Sorry," said d'Artagnan through a split lip. "Matthaei was trying to force himself onto Amelia, though, Father. I did what I had to." He paused. "I distracted them for long enough. May have provoked Matthaei a little too much, though."

For all his annoyance, Alexandre couldn't find it in himself to reprimand his wild son for something so noble, and chose instead to simply ruffle his hair in exasperation. "That was an honorable thing of you to do. But for God's sake, Charles, at least _win_ when you're the one challenging."

**~oOOo~**

"Are you alright?" He asks her, hands coming up as if to catch her if she falls.

"I'll survive," she says, and stares at Charon's body, the golden dust littered around him. Her eyes are wide and hollow- after all, she's used to seeing things like this all the time, growing up on the streets. She's all too familiar with death. But she's never been shot- never been betrayed by a friend.

"Charon, um," Porthos says, a sudden need to show her that Charon wasn't all bad- that it was a betrayal made in haste and not hatred. "He didn't want to kill you. He loved you."

Flea blinks and look away. "So what now?" She asks softly, Lukia licking the tips of her fingers softly.

Brinley presses herself against Porthos' legs. "You could come wiv' me," he offers, and she looks back up at him, blue eyes dim.

"Or you could stay here," she says quietly. He knew she'd say that, and he knows that she knows the answer. It doesn't make the fact that the answer doesn't include the two of them together any less painful, though.

He clears his throat. "We live in different worlds, you an' me. I belong wiv' my friends...an' you wiv' yours." She glances down at Charon again, hesitating, so he continues. "You know it's doomed, this place. It's only a matter of time before the Cardinal gets 'round to destroyin' your world." He's trying to convince her, after everything, because she's the closest thing to family he has and he loves her, and he doesn't want to see her hurt when he knows he can provide what she needs. But that's not what she wants, and he knows it. "You could," he presses gently, determined still.

She looks back up at him sharply and her eyes are clearer than even he's seen, and he knows right then that he was right, and he's known what her response will be all along. She's going to break his heart, and he's going to break hers, because that's what they do. He knows.

"And that's not true of yours?" She answers softly, and he ducks his head. "Let's just enjoy what we have while we have it."

"Mm," Porthos hums quietly when he can think of nothing else to say.

"Goodbye, Porthos," she says, with a smile, reminding Porthos achingly of when they were children and the world was a simpler place. Then she steps over the golden flecks sprayed out on the floor, turns away, and just like that walks out of his life.

Brinley jumps up into his arms and tucks against his chest, like she's a mouse again instead of a badger, saying softly, "we love her, Porthos, we love her, we love her-"

It hurts too much, so much that Porthos can't take it- so he ignores her.

**~oOOo~**

"I wonder what she'll be," she said as she traced delicate patterns across his chest, splayed against his side. The morning sun made the room look pure and white, the sheets silken against his skin, the room itself suspended ethereal in time.

"What'll who be?" he asked languidly, her fingertips skimming over his shoulder, the one not tucked into his side against his ribs, against his heart. Eris was curled up at his feet, gently breathing, tail flicking back and forth, a black ink splatter against the white of the morning, sleek and beautiful.

 _Call me 'beautiful' one more time,_ she said lazily, purring low in her throat. _I dare you._

Athos didn't have the energy. He didn't want to shatter the calm that had descended upon them, her fingertips skimming against his skin, her voice whispering quietly in his ear. "I wonder what Amelade will settle as."

"Mm," Athos agreed. "I'm sure Thomas will be pleased either way. He's never been particularly picky over that sort of thing, and trusts Ammie."

"True enough," she responded lightly, kissing under his jaw. "The other day I heard him wishing that it'd be big and powerful like Eris."

 _Doesn't suit Ammie at all,_ was what he thought, though he didn't say anything. Thomas was small and innocent, full of light and love and laughter, and Athos quite thought that Ammie would settle as something that properly conveyed that- maybe a bird. Small. Sweet.

"Maybe," he said aloud instead, "he'll end up like yours. Ferocious little thing."

"Bobcats tend to be," she laughed and leaned down to look at her own daemon, who blinked up at her with yellow, slitted eyes, all curled up against Eris. "Perhaps. We'll see. He'll be so excited when he settles."

Thomas was a late settler, but it would be worth it. Athos felt it in his bones. Eris purred louder, a kitten trapped in a panther's body.

Thomas died before he saw his settling. Ammie was just golden flecks on the floor and Eris wailed as she tried to piece her back together, Athos cradling Thomas' body close and wobbling, "oh, Thomas, _Thomas_ -"

**~oOOo~**

"So why do you think the Cardinal is so interested in this baby?" D'Artagnan asks as they ride quietly through the road, the top of the Church just visible over the trees. They're almost there; it won't be more than five minutes, now.

"All I know is it's our job to collect the infant and his mother and take them back to Paris," Aramis answers, Kaelyn pressed softly against his leg. They walk side by side at an unhurried pace, their horses glad for the reprieve after riding hard all day. D'Artagnan and Astraea both share their horse, her side flush with his back, but they seem to be doing their best not to acknowledge one another.

 _Progress,_ says Kaelyn optimistically, her ears flopping forwards.

 _Hm,_ Aramis says back, unconvinced.

"That's it?" d'Artagnan says dubiously, as if he expects Aramis to know more than him. And normally, that would be fair; Aramis as a seasoned Musketeer was often debriefed more thoroughly than d'Artagnan (who, admittedly, was not exactly meant to be tagging along on missions, but that was a moot point).

"That's it," says Aramis in faux cheer, Kaelyn nudging him with her nose irritably.

 _Stop it,_ she scolds, and sends a reassuring look at d'Artagnan.

He seems to appreciate it, because it prompts, "you're not curious?"

"Not in the least," Aramis says, doing his best to sound bored. It's nothing against d'Artagnan; it's simply that he isn't in the mood to talk, memories of Savoy too close to the surface from his nightmares last night for him to talk. Sometimes, distractions are welcome. Sometimes they make things worse.

"And this priest Duval?" D'Artagnan presses, curiosity getting the best of him. Aramis can't blame his young friend even as annoyance quietly prickles at him; it's in d'Artagnan's nature to ask questions. "What does he have to do with it all?"

"He's probably paid to look after them," Aramis can't help but dismiss. "But one thing you need to learn, d'Artagnan: don't get involved."

"But-"

Astraea shoves d'Artagnan hard, hard enough to make him wince, and he quiets abruptly, upset. Kaelyn shares a glance with Aramis and he knows what's she's thinking, and he nods his agreement, and she softly plods over and takes d'Artagnan's sleeve between her lips, pulling gently. When he's level to her, she reaches up and gently tugs at his hair, nickering softly at him.

"Don't be upset, d'Artagnan," she says, her big eyes tender. "It's alright."

It's the first time she's ever touched him, and his radiant smile is enough to banish the demons swimming through Aramis' thoughts.

**~oOOo~**

He dashes through the hallways and slams into the room, awkwardly stumbling to a stop when he catches sight of Constance and what she's doing. Horrified, Constance whirls around and demands, "don't Musketeers ever knock?!"

"My apologies," he hastens. "We're a little pressed for time." Quinnallian chatters indignantly at him from Constance's shoulder as she fumbles to close the top of her corset while balancing the baby in her arms, and Aramis thinks maybe he should help her, reaching out. "Constance-"

"Take him!" She growls, shoving the baby into his arms so fast that he barely has time to prepare himself, but as he stares at Henri his eyes soften. Henri gurgles up at him, eyes so big and blue and pure that Aramis is stricken, staring down into the baby's soft, chubby face.

"Aramis," whispers Kaelyn from his side as she peers into his arms, her ears cocked forwards in curiosity. "Aramis, she's so _small_."

For a moment Aramis has no idea who Kaelyn is talking about- but then the blanket shifts and reveals a tiny bird daemon curled up on Henri's chest, no bigger than Aramis' hand. It's a bluebird, her feathers the same shade as Henri's eyes, and she's small and fragile and breakable and beautiful.

Aramis looks back at Henri's face, elfin and smooth, and smiles softly, greeting, "hello."

**~oOOo~**

"Don't get involved," d'Artagnan says. "That's what you said."

Aramis says, "shut up, d'Artagnan."

**~oOOo~**

Her daemon's name is Eoin- _God is gracious._ She'd laugh, if she were still Anne; Anne would find that bit of irony amusing.

Milady De Winter finds it incorrigible.

Because God has never been gracious- not to her, not to them. He made her and Eoin scrape for every foothold in the world, fight for every breath, struggle for every step. God ripped the only good thing in her life away from her and then spared her life. She would have rather died and spent the rest of her days in formless misery than live in the twisted wretchedness that she did now.

But God could not take pity- He had saved her.

 _God is gracious?_ Such a disappointment.

Such _hypocrisy_.

Once upon a time, she might have found that ironic. Anne would have laughed at the irony.

Milady De Winter doesn't.

**~oOOo~**

He loved to play with her hair when she slept.

She was so beautiful- pure and untouched by the agonies of this world, quiet as she slumbered against him. Her gaze was enough to make him dizzy, her touch enough to take his breath away. He felt almost as if he needed nothing else in the world so long as she was here, by his side.

Eris sensed his train of thought, curling closer to Eoin, whose rumbling purrs vibrating through the bedding and sent a warm tremble through Athos' bones. He slept on, unaware of Eris' movement, and as she picked up her head and her huge, glowing eyes met his gaze, Athos knew.

"Olivier," she said, quietly enough so that neither Eoin nor Anne were disturbed by the raspy quality of her voice. "We- we."

He knew what she was going to say, knew what she meant. He could feel it, deep in his chest.

The next day, he proposed, and as Eoin jumped ecstatically into his arms, she said yes.

**~oOOo~**

"This is a bad idea, Athos," Eris murmurs to him.

Aramis sends Eris a look from over his shoulder. "Come now, Eris, shame on you," he scolds teasingly. "You're not afraid of a few scholarly women, now are you?"

Eris scoffs at him, clacking her beak dangerously close to his ear. Athos raises his eyebrows- for all that she does it out of affection, when she draws blood, it hurts. He would know. "Just because you're afraid does not mean that I am," she defends. "I merely meant it was a bad idea bringing _you_ along; God knows you insult more women than you charm."

"Ouch," says d'Artagnan, sounding impressed.

"Eris, you wound me!" Aramis proclaims, laying a hand over his chest and sending a betrayed look d'Artagnan's way. D'Artagnan shrugs and gestures to Eris, as if to say, _'I'm with her'_. "Of all the cruelties!" Aramis wails, and playfully knocks d'Artagnan's shoulder.

"Aramis," Athos reprimands as they come upon the scholarly house. "Enough now."

Aramis straightens, all pretenses of humor gone. Eris loses her taunting attitude, sheds it like she's molting. "This is still a bad idea," she mutters once more as Athos gets down from his horse and stalks up to the door. "Are you listening to me?"

Athos ignores her, instead opening the door and walking into the big study hall. Women are hunched over books and scattered around the room, silence reigning as they concentrate on their studies. There are bookshelves lining the walls; titles of planets and new world ideas that would make the Cardinal's head spin. He gives the Comtesse respect for so blatantly defying his will. "Does anyone here know the whereabouts of Mademoiselle Fleur Baudin?"

The Comtesse stands, gliding over to him with a beautiful swan daemon at her side. She carries herself like their presence is a pesky interruption. It's meant to be intimidating, probably, but Athos is unfazed. "If you have questions, Monsieur, address them to me."

"Comtesse De Larroque," Athos says calmly, politely looking away from her swan. "I am here on behalf of the King. My name is-"

"I know who you are," she cuts in flippantly, and the audacity with which she does so takes Athos aback a moment. Okay, he's impressed; he'll admit it.

 _Told you,_ Eris says moodily from his shoulder.

The Comtesse continues. "I've often seen you at court and thought how handsome you are. There is a melancholy aspect to your looks that I find intriguing- but it's probably only mental vacancy." A few women around the room giggle in amusement, and Athos makes sure that his expression stays carefully neutral.

Eris does no such thing. _I_ _ **told you**_ _this was a bad idea,_ she stresses louder.

 _You are not helping,_ Athos informs curtly, saying aloud, "I hope not. But forgive our intrusion."

"I will not forgive it," says De Larroque firmly, and Athos senses the glance that d'Artagnan sends him. "This is a place of scholarship, where women can enjoy each other's company without the crude attentions of men. What is it that you want?"

"Ah," d'Artagnan starts, and Astraea sends him a glare that strongly suggests she'd like to kick him. "We are looking for Fleur Baudin. She's run away from her family and they are- anxious." There's a lilt to his voice that belies his words, like he doesn't himself believe them.

The Comtesse hears it. "Anxious to marry her into a life of domestic slavery, no doubt," she says, and suddenly she sounds weary, as if this is something she's had to deal with time and time again. Athos has no doubt that she has. "Well, she's not here. You can go now." As she turns away, something near her breast catches Athos' eye.

"Your brooch," he says suddenly. "What does it mean?"

The Comtesse turns back to him, glancing down at it. "It is a wren," she explains coolly. "A bird that cannot be caged. A symbol of hope and freedom."

Aramis speaks up for the first time, saying, "a symbol of your own dreams and ambitions, I would imagine?"

The Comtesse's gaze locks onto him, and Kaelyn stomps the floor with her hooves, a sign of her ire. She never liked being the center of attention.

Comtesse De Larroque unabashedly stares at her, analyzing her for a prolonged moment, eyes searching. "Ah," she says finally, and a humorless smile flits across her face. "We have a romantic in our midsts." Aramis bows slightly as the ladies around them titter once more. "Observe, ladies," says De Larroque, "the remarkable phenomenon; a man of wisdom and perception."

Athos shares a dry glance with d'Artagnan, but says nothing. Astraea huffs from d'Artagnan's feet, clearly aware of what's going to happen.

Aramis smiles and Stares. "If by romantic you mean a man who gladly acknowledges the superiority of the female sex, then yes," he bows once more, keeping his eyes locked on Larroque's face. "I accept the description."

The Comtesse laughs. "Your charm won't work here. We are quite immune."

"We," Athos interrupts before Aramis can retort, "are not here to discuss your beliefs. We are looking for Fleur Baudin."

"And I've already told you that she's not here."

Athos knows this game. He plays it well. "Then you won't mind if we search your house."

"On the contrary, I mind very much," she says adamantly.

"I could insist," says Athos.

"Or you could take my word." She stalks closer, her glimmering swan daemon flittering alongside. Eris makes a noise in the back of her throat as De Larroque stares her in the face before turning her gaze back to Athos. "Am I right?" She asks quietly. "Is there an inner sadness that forms the beauty of your features? Answer me honestly, and I shall allow you to search my house."

 _Olivier,_ whispers Eris.

Athos answers haltingly. "We all have our deep secrets and hidden emotions, Comtesse. Allow me to keep mine to myself."

The Comtesse hums discontentedly. "Hardly an adequate answer," she says. "But I'm feeling indulgent. Follow me." She turns on her heel, dress flipping over itself in a display of grace, and glides out of the room.

"Well, if that wasn't flirting, I don't know what is," says Aramis to d'Artagnan.

"Rubbish," argues d'Artagnan, brows drawn together in confusion. "She can't stand him!"

Astraea throws her head back and begins to laugh richly at the same time Aramis ducks his head to hide his smile. "One day, d'Artagnan," he says reassuringly, "we'll sit down and- I'll explain women to you."

That's all he catches as he's finally forced to move to keep up with the Comtesse, and he feels Eris sigh from his shoulder.

 _You were right, you know_ , he tells her. _This was a bad idea._

_Told you._

**~oOOo~**

The Musketeer who had saved her was beautiful.

"Anne," Emery said in rebuke, curling up on her lap like he would when he was a kitten. "Don't think like that." He meant that she _couldn't_ think like that, that she couldn't think as if she were _free_. Emery rubbed his forehead against her chin, purring reassuringly as he reminded her of the bitter truth. "You're a Queen now."

Anne sighed, rubbing her eyes. They were so tired. "I know," she told him. "But it's not as if I can help it. He was very handsome, you know."

Emery huffed. "I was there," he said, and she laughed lightly at his indignance, sobering again at the look he sent her. "I was there, and I know what you did."

"It was a reward," she said, looking away from him. He could always tell when she was lying. "It was a gift for protecting me so valiantly. He was even hurt, Emmy."

Her childhood name for him softened him a little- she could feel it. Yet he shook it off, placing both paws against her shoulders and levelling himself up so that they were eye to eye. "Anne," he said slowly. "I know what you did. What the significance of that was. That was-" his voice thickened. "That was the last we- you- had of home."

She stroked down the bridge of his nose when she felt his swell of sadness in her chest, smiling softly when he settled down and kneaded her dress. She pictured Aramis' beautiful dark eyes, the olive of his skin, the shadows to his face that spoke of Spain, a call to a homeland. "No," she said. "We still have a bit of home."

"You're in love with him because he saved you," Emery insisted, licking her hand gently.

However true that may have been, she still hoped that he could feel her heart beating through the cross as it rest against his.

**~oOOo~**

"What will you do now?" Athos asks. Eris shifts on his shoulder.

Comtesse De Larroque sighs and Camer's head bows where he stands at her side. Athos can only recall a handful of daemons in his life that have struck him as so beautiful. "I was thinking of opening a school," she says, and Cam nips her fingers gently, long neck curled slightly. "For the daughters of the poor..." She pauses. "I shall enjoy being a teacher." She shrugs a little, halfheartedly, and Athos knows. He knows.

"Madame De Lachapelle," Athos says instead. "Did she ever tell you anything about herself?" It's easier. Simpler. It's mostly because deep down he wants to see De Larroque again, if only to know she's alright. She doesn't want to have that sort of thing with a man, and he couldn't have anything with her- not like that- and she knows it. Eris nips sharply at his ear, the momentary pain stopping the thought before it forms.

 _Thank you,_ he says.

 _Anytime,_ Eris answers.

Comtesse De Larroque shakes her head slightly, brows creasing. "Now that I think of it...very little," she says. When he doesn't respond, a new light reaches her eyes and she continues, "so you did know her after all."

He hesitates. "In another time," he says. "In another life."

Eris snaps her beak. Comtesse De Larroque spares her a glance and smiles, and it warms Athos to the very tips of his toes despite the chilly weather.

She steps closer and places a hand against his cheek, warm and soft where his stubble is cold and rough, her eyes glittering with concern. "Be careful, Athos," she advises, face open and caught between fear and worry. "She has the Cardinal's protection. A blow against her is a blow against him." She pauses, swallowing. Her voice has lowered in direness. "And he won't take it lightly."

Her thumb brushes over his cheek. _I want her to stay,_ Eris whispers. Deep in his heart, Athos feels her ache.

Comtesse De Larroque's gaze slips to his lips, and before he can check himself he leans down as she leans up, pressing their lips together briefly. From his shoulder, Eris keens. From her knees, Cam caws mournfully, as if he too wishes they could stay.

When she pulls away, he feels raw and vulnerable. "I could have loved a man like you," she says, eyes brimming with something akin to desperation. Solemnity. She seems older for the first time.

Instead of saying what he truly believes, he responds, "it's a pity that neither of us are the marrying kind."

And she knows. She knows.

Turning away, he takes a few steps after her to see if she may need help- but of course she won't. She steps into the carriage with a finality that settles into his bones as heavy as the Dust had, and he tries not to seem like he knows what she's leaving behind when the carriage pulls away, and she looks back.

 _Broken,_ he thinks. _We're broken._

 _Don't say that,_ Eris murmurs, nipping his ear again- affectionately this time. _Don't say that._

_It's true._

_I know._

**~oOOo~**

When Kaelyn had settled, his mother had been so pleased. She'd settled when he was twelve- certainly not a bad age- and his mother had been so proud at Kaelyn's elegance, beaming from ear to ear when he'd come to shyly tell her that this was what Kaelyn was.

"Oh, Lyn," she'd whispered, brushing gentle fingers along Kaelyn's long ears. His mother had always had pet names for everyone, but _Lyn_ was the one she'd used most often. (When his mother died, the name died with her.)

At the time, though, Aramis hadn't thought Kaelyn was anything special. Sure, she was pretty- she had long legs and a thin face with huge, olive shaped eyes- but she wasn't a warrior's daemon. She wasn't fast or strong or fierce; she couldn't fly and, even if she could attack, she'd probably refuse. Kaelyn was a gentle soul who liked to avoid conflict when she could. (His joining the Musketeers' regiment was a time in their lives that they'd both be happy forgetting).

Since then, he'd learned to accept Kaelyn's nature- it wasn't as if he could deny it, after all. She was just quiet and soft and didn't like to fight, and he had to accept that. It was fine after a while- her grace balanced out his impulsiveness.

But he had been wrong about a lot of it- she was brave and good and strong and all the good of him, and he hadn't realized that until Savoy, when he'd nearly lost her.

And from then on, he was pleased, too.

**~oOOo~**

He doesn't have a daemon.

_He doesn't have a daemon._

"Where's your daemon?!" D'Artagnan snarls and Astraea's claws curl into the skin of his shoulder where she's perched. LaBarge cackles.

"You're a pretty thing," he tells Astraea, his voice like glass as his eyes narrow in wolfishness. "You've gotta be somethin' special then, to be somethin' so _pretty-_ "

Astraea snarls, her teeth bared as her hackles rise. She looks vicious.

She's more terrified than she's been in her entire life, and before she can catch herself she's whispering to d'Artagnan: _he's speaking to me directly, dearhea-_

She cuts herself off with a growl but it's enough, more than enough, and something huge swells in d'Artagnan at her slip up, the slip up he's been hoping for since she skirted out of his reach all those nights ago, when she'd changed and run away, when he'd driven her away-

LaBarge laughs again, a wicked laugh, and rage like he's never known slams into d'Artagnan hard enough to send him nearly off his feet. "You burnt down my farm," he growls, all sharp edges and crooked justice, darkness creeping into his eyes. "You destroyed my property."

LaBarge's gaze flickers to Astraea, a malicious glint enters his eyes. It settles there permanently, the darkness of the devil. "And weren't it a sight," he says lowly, licking his lips as a wild grin coats his lips. "Just like all the others I burned, eh? All those daemons howling, their humans stumbling about in panic. Oh, their screams as they tried to find somethin' to settle as...I watched a little girl die as her daemon dissolved into _dust-_ "

With a yowl of hatred Astraea lunges, jaws snapping against LaBarge's face as she rips at his chest with her claws, a whirlwind of snarling red as she crashes into him, rage coating her snout in blood-

" _Astraea!"_ D'Artagnan screams as golden dust bursts forth and pain lances through his chest; it's not his pain, it's hers, and that scares him, the fear permeating his blood and forcing him to leap into the skirmish, sword drawn as he desperately tries not to hit her, not to hit her, _not to hit her-_

LaBarge swings himself around and dodges, grabbing the cloak from the back of his chair and setting it aflame, disregarding Astraea's snarling form as best as he can as he whips the cape around and tries to hit d'Artagnan with it, who leaps backwards and barely manages to avoid being burnt. Sucking in a breath he lunges forward and nicks LaBarge's side, Astraea providing ample distraction; LaBarge roars in pain and rears in retreat, finally growing tired of Astraea's struggling and seizing her about the neck, squeezing with all his strength and cutting off her air-

D'Artagnan crumbles to his knees, white hot pain lacing itself into his skin as his air supply promptly vanishes too, caught by the throat, pain that he's never known sparking in the center of his chest and throbbing out into his limbs, paralyzing him with agony-

"Astraea-" he chokes, flailing to bring his sword in front of him, LaBarge grinning with all his teeth as Astraea whimpers for air, and LaBarge is killing him, killing him-

Cackling madly, LaBarge makes a dismissive noise deep in throat and tosses Astraea aside like she's a piece of trash from the streets and she slams into the wall with a soft yelp, thudding once she hits the floor. She doesn't move again.

D'Artagnan swallows frantic gasps of air, coughing as the vice around his windpipe eases, the sharp sting it leaves behind too real at the back of his throat, violation too high in his chest. LaBarge snarls as he latches onto the front of d'Artagnan's jacket, hauling him off the ground and dragging him closer so that they're nose to nose.

"You're a coward, boy," LaBarge says, his rancid breath leaving scorching trails of goosebumps along d'Artagnan's skin. "And you're goin' to die like one."

He must've picked up d'Artagnan rapier at some point because he presses it to d'Artagnan's stomach now, presses-

There's a screeching war-cry and a flash of feathers and Eris is slamming into LaBarge's face, her talons ripping, _ripping_ , and LaBarge is screaming as he desperately tries to fling her away-

" _Eris!"_ D'Artagnan wails as Athos picks him up and _fights_ to drag him from the room because there is no way d'Artagnan is leaving Astraea, not now, not after everything, not after what they've been through, not after all the work they've gone through to keep themselves going so he's clawing, tearing at Athos' hands around his chest because he _refuses_ to lose her- "Eris please, save her Eris _please-"_

Eris hears him, wailing at the top of her lungs as she lets LaBarge stumble away and tear at his bloody eyes, her wings bearing her into flight; gentle, blood slicked talons wrap around Astraea's middle, and d'Artagnan finally allows Athos to pull him from the room as Eris flies overhead with Astraea safely in her grip.

When they're finally far enough from the commotion Eris sets Astraea down, and d'Artagnan breaks free of Athos' hold and rushes to her, cradling her broken golden body close, keening,"oh, _oh-_ Astraea hang on, don't leave me, _don't leave me-"_

**~oOOo~**

Athos crouches low over d'Artagnan's hitching shoulders as he cradles Astraea close, tears rolling down his nose, his hands brushing gently over her dust-streaked form. Eris makes a noise low in her throat and her wings rustle, as if she wants to tuck d'Artagnan under them but doesn't know if she'll be welcomed.

Athos gently pries d'Artagnan's hands away from his daemon, and he only hesitates slightly as he gently places his hands on her wounds, disregarding the law completely. He wets his lips at the emotion that bursts forth, at the blasphemy of the action he's just committed, and gently (oh, so gently) pulls her to his chest and runs his hand over her ears, standing as he cradles her closer. D'Artagnan, numb, follows so closely behind that he could be Athos' shadow.

Eris perches on d'Artagnan's shoulder and throws her wing out over his head, like he's a fledgling.

They walk in silence, Athos in the lead and d'Artagnan disturbingly compliant behind him, and if Astraea's breath hitches as she softly licks his thumb in thanks, they don't say anything to each other.

Eris nips d'Artagnan's ear.

**~oOOo~**

It wasn't that he wanted to take over the throne.

No, no. That would be foolish- too gaudy for him. He played on the sidelines quietly, surely. Life as a whole was one universal chess game: he had to be careful about which pieces he sacrificed and which he kept close, had to choose wisely which he gave away and which he treasured. It was a delicate balance.

The new Queen of France was a child- the King even more so, though Richelieu had expected and prepared for that. But the Queen was a wildcard, much too opinionated for a woman of the Court, much less one of nobility. He would have to keep an eye on her. A careful watch.

He liked to think of himself as the Queen of the chessboard- the one who held all possible moves. Yet she, too, held that title.

When Miladyhad come to him, battered, bruised and betrayed, her bobcat daemon coming apart at the seams, he couldn't help but admire her potential. She understood Dust like no one else but he did. She understood the fragility of their world- the _frailty_ of it. The idea that Dust wasn't dust, it was something more, something important, something malleable. She understood _. Quite_ well.

He would have offered to have her daemon removed- he could see it, the _want_ , in her eyes. But the procedure was too risky for such a valuable asset. Were it to go wrong, he would lose her- and he couldn't lose the best pawn on the board. Intercision was dangerous business.

So he watched her suffer in silence, his darling beside him, perched on his shoulder day by day despite being a cat and not a bird. He thought, perhaps, she should change into one- but no. That would have been too telling, after all these years as a cat- too unnerving for those who knew him. It would expose him. So his darling suffered in silence, too.

_One foot in the grave already._

Richelieu knew how to prepare for when he stepped all the way in.

**~oOOo~**

"There's a good boy," d'Artagnan murmured as he stroked the horse's nose, dislodging some lingering raindrops. Outside the barn the storm still raged, the wind whistling through the cracks in the wood, but it was warm and dry for the horses. They'd be rested for the remainder of the journey in the morning.

Astraea poked her head out of his tunic in relief, gently using her claws to climb her way to his shoulder. She shook her head viciously, water flying about as her ears flopped wetly against both sides of her head Then, she began attempting to dry herself, licking her paws and her coat like a cat would to clean itself, impressively remaining balanced on d'Artagnan's shoulder as she did so.

Lifting her head as she deemed dryness impossible, Astraea's eyes met a pair of figures approaching from the darkest corner, their dog daemons growling menacingly from their sides-

"D'Artagnan!" She screeched and he was unsheathing his sword in the blink of an eye, so fast he dislodged her and she tumbled from his shoulder, hitting the ground hard with a soft yelp. D'Artagnan leapt in front of her as one of the dog daemons snapped his jaws, nearly snatching her by the stomach and crunching her spine, and as d'Artagnan swung himself around he managed to grab and twist one of the attacker's arms so that the gun he was clutching misfired and hit his partner, who slammed into one of the stalls with a loud bang. The dog daemon that had been threatening her burst into dust and Astraea ran, scurrying up d'Artagnan's leg just as the other snarling dog daemon nearly clamped his teeth down on her tail.

D'Artagnan growled at the other man, his sword clenched in his hand, muscles coiling and prepared to spring-

And yet the other man turned on his heel and fled, his dog daemon scampering after him, and d'Artagnan grabbed her swiftly from his shoulder and held her securely in his arms as he pursued, taking them both out into the pouring rain once again. The foul man who fled managed to pull himself up onto a horse and their party ran, their retreating backs a mockery.

Astraea panted, heaving desperately to catch her breath, burying her face into d'Artagnan's neck for comfort and whispering, "he almost got me, he almost got me, his daemon attacked me-"

"Shh," d'Artagnan said softly, running his hand through the downy fur at the top of her head, his ire not forgotten but pushed away as concern quickly replaced it. "Shh, it's alright, we're- we're safe."

Gritting his teeth, he flung down the sword that he'd stolen- useless now that there was no one to fight- and turned, his father's approaching figure easy to make out despite the darkness. Shame welled quickly in the hollow of d'Artagnan's throat, nearly preventing him from speaking.

"I couldn't stop them," he confessed, a huge swell of annoyance at himself crashing over him like a tidal wave as he turned, still watching their retreating forms vanish into the night. Astraea licked the side of his neck, still tucked against his chest.

D'Artagnan sensed his father coming up beside him, steeled himself for when he would be told to simply let it go, that carrying out their errand was more important, that he need not be so rash-

But his father fell to his knees before such lecture came, gasping for air as he looked to his son, and d'Artagnan's dismissal was immediately forgotten as he dropped Astraea and crumpled to his knees, slipping one arm under his father's head to support it and the other going to the side Alexandre was clutching. There was blood, runny in the rain but there, a bullet wound-

"Father, _FATHER!"_ A hand came to cradle his father's cheek, to force Alexandre to look at him, look at him-

"Father-" shakily, shakily as d'Artagnan's trembling hand reached down to cover the bullet wound again, to keep his father's blood inside his body, but it was pooling around them, the rain making it run-

"Athos," Alexandre gasped, and raindrops clung to his eyelashes, and his eyes stared at the murky sky, past his son. From d'Artagnan's side Astraea was keening, her tail encircling Quasale as her feathers dissolved, dust swirling with the red on the cobble and making a portrait of red and gold and rain.

D'Artagnan choked on a sob, wobbling, "please-"

"Athos…" But his father was unable to say more, and with a parting, lasting exhale, Alexandre stared at the sky, past his son, and left him.

With a parting, mournful cry, Quasale began to unravel like a quilt with a pulled thread, golden dust leaking away and shimmering in the nonexistent light as she reached towards his father in vain, and d'Artagnan desperately disobeyed his instincts and lifted her, placing her so she settled right over the still bleeding bullet wound-

And she was gone.

"Oh," d'Artagnan said, eyes wide as he stared down at his father, the dust that used to be his beloved daemon sprinkled all around, beginning to run- "oh-"

And there was Astraea, hunched in on herself beside him, her own heart breaking and something huge, something huge and distinct and different rippling through her, overwhelming her-

And then it was over, and it was still the two of them, and d'Artagnan stared at her with wide, horrified eyes, his hands beginning to tremble.

"Stop looking at me like that," she demanded shakily, clumsy as she stood. "Stop it, _stop it!"_

D'Artagnan couldn't seem to listen, still staring at her with his terror-filled expression and Astraea looked down at the cobbles to avoid his gaze, catching her own reflection, watching it mix with the swirl of gold and red and rain and now the orange of her coat-

She snarled and ripped away from him, going as far as she could until an almighty, painful tug in her chest forced her to stop, and d'Artagnan was calling her name, reaching for her, reaching, "dear-"

She snapped at his fingers, dodged him so he could not touch her until he grew too tired to continue trying, and ignored him.

**~oOOo~**

Tréville goes down hard, and d'Artagnan's nervousness peaks into anger the moment LaBarge slams down on the socket of the Captain's dominant arm and nearly cripples Tréville for the rest of his life.

"Hey!" D'Artagnan protests loudly, his hand automatically going to the hilt of his sword.

"I'm going to kill him," Astraea rumbles, hackles rising, and the anger is all of a sudden roaring through him like a wave and he knows, knows that this is it, this is it-

His anger makes his blood boil and makes him want to move, want to rip and tear and attack, but he forces himself to calm as he paces to and fro and tries to settle the adrenaline coursing through his veins. His fellow onlookers have launched into action already, engaging in combat as Tréville's daemon Eliah hisses at LaBarge from where she's standing protectively over Tréville's body.

Tréville, struggling to stand, shouts, "What are you doing?!"

Astraea doesn't hesitate to respond, so casually breaking taboo when she barks back, "saving your life!" She snarls and launches herself at the daemon trying to ambush Eliah, clawing and snapping at them when they get too close. Astraea is taking out all the anger d'Artagnan cannot, and it's just enough to allow d'Artagnan to focus, prowling at the edges of the battle as his eyes focus only on LaBarge, his expression darkening.

"What are you doing?!" Astraea hisses, nipping at his fingers agitatedly. "Were you even paying attention?! You saw what he did to Tréville-"

"Biding my time," d'Artagnan answers steadily, his gaze unwavering. The anger that simmers does not make him irrational like it has so many times in the past. He's found a balance in himself somehow.

Astraea stares at him and must feel the change in him too; she's startled into speechlessness. Out of the two of them, she's always been the more impulsive.

"Oh," she says, and something between them shifts as her own nature changes, like she has a newfound respect for him. She hovers around his knees, sizing LaBarge up. Her eyes are like stone.

It seems as though the King has finally had enough, because he rises and commandsin a long, drawn out breath, _"stop!"_ Obediently, the fighting ceases, the Musketeers and Red Guards eyeing each other from opposite ends of the arena. "Your man broke the rules, Cardinal," the King continues, and the Cardinal has the moment to look offended before the King goes on. "Captain Tréville may nominate another champion if he wishes."

Athos helps the Captain stand, and d'Artagnan hovers a little ways off, simply giving the Captain a look. He is ready. He feels it on his bones.

Tréville sighs and glances at Eliah, and they silently communicate to each other. Tréville says something that makes Eliah chuckle in the low, scratchy way that is particular to cats, and they seem to come to a mutual agreement.

Tréville meets the eyes of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, and looks up. "I nominate d'Artagnan to take my place," he proclaims, and LaBarge breaks out into mocking laughter.

Astraea bristles, and d'Artagnan nudges her gently to quiet her. It is a testament to her newfound understanding of him how quickly she listens, tucking away her anger in order to diplomatically say, "I'll go for the eyes, then, shall I?"

"No," d'Artagnan says, shaking his head. "A man can't survive without a daemon, Astraea. Find his daemon."

"It must be hidden away," she murmurs, her tail curling around his leg like it would when she was a fennec. It's not the same, and that's what makes it wonderful. D'Artagnan finally understands. "I'll have to draw it out, or find it."

"You can do it."

"I know."

Both of them go quiet but their skin vibrates, hyper aware of each other like they've never been before. They are what they're meant to be.

LaBarge is still chuckling when he steals a sword from a nearby soldier's scabbard. It's a showy display, what he's declaring, and it makes him look cocky and stupid rather than what d'Artagnan once thought would look confident and unconcerned. "My old friend from th' Bastille!" He proclaims joyfully, a wolfish smile sitting on his lips. "You look even more pathetic in th' daylight."

"Go for his daemon's throat," d'Artagnan says quietly, and Astraea stretches dangerously, muscles coiling.

"I will," she promises, direwolf as she bares her teeth.

"I'm going to enjoy this," LaBarge says, licking his front teeth as well, curling his lips back at Astraea, his eyes flickering to d'Artagnan.

"Somehow I doubt it," d'Artagnan says steadily, sure.

He's the one who moves first, lunging forward with his sword and parrying quickly as LaBarge brings down his own, and he gasps involuntarily when he's elbowed in the back and shoved to the ground. Astraea dances around LaBarge's legs, hissing and nipping when she finds a chance to attack around their swinging blades, smart enough to avoid them as best she can. D'Artagnan manages a swipe to LaBarge's calf and regains his feet, bouncing a little, balancing.

"Is that the best you got?" LaBarge asks in pseudo disbelief, lips wrenching into a snarl as d'Artagnan throws himself forward and back into the fight, Astraea hissing as she leaps forward too. LaBarge and d'Artagnan collide in a clash of sparks, gripping each other's blades as they push against one another, d'Artagnan struggling to remain upright as LaBarge leans his full weight onto his sword, the blade dangerously close to d'Artagnan's face-

Astraea's teeth clamp down on LaBarge's wrist, her claws creating puncture wounds all along his arm as she scratches at whatever skin she can reach; it allows d'Artagnan to duck under LaBarge's sword and slash him sharply across the middle. LaBarge's hand jerks instinctively as d'Artagnan spins away, his arm arcing down into a swipe and effectively throwing Astraea a good six feet, and in the same moment nearly takes d'Artagnan's arm off. Glancing at the rip in his jacket, d'Artagnan takes a deep breath to force down the raging thing inside him, ignoring the flash of pain that ignites his organs when Astraea hits the ground and yelps softly. He glares at LaBarge and prepares himself, half-watching in his peripheral vision as Astraea pushes herself to her feet.

"I wish I could remember burning down your farm," LaBarge taunts, the gleam of madness on his face that is suddenly so clear to d'Artagnan that it nearly takes his breath away. "It would make killin' you a lot sweeter!"

D'Artagnan forces himself to pause, and Astraea meets his eyes. _I'm ready,_ she says and is clearly waiting for some sort of diversion, so d'Artagnan once more flings himself forward, parrying and riposting when LaBarge blocks his attacks. D'Artagnan tries not to lose his balance when he's kicked viciously in the chest.

Astraea slinks forward, bushy tail lashing as she leaps, her muzzle slamming into LaBarge's vest pocket; she falls and hits the ground hard but rolls with the impact, and when she rights herself she's holding a squirming, squealing thing between her jaws. Her eyes shine in victory.

Immediately LaBarge stutters, his movements sloppy as he goes to attack, and Astraea grins a wolf's grin as she bites down a little harder, golden dust beginning to stream from her mouth. D'Artagnan grins an identical grin of triumph, ignoring the thing that tells him killing someone's daemon would be wrong as he looks LaBarge in the face as if to say, _it's over._

LaBarge, however, doesn't seem defeated; instead, a glint enters his eyes that immediately sets d'Artagnan on edge. "Is that the best you've got, boy?"

Astraea's jaws are pried open by whatever it is that's clamped within them, the small rodent daemon dropping from her mouth. It begins to contort in a morbid, broken sort of way, and d'Artagnan watches in horror as it grows and swells into something enormous, bones crackling as it settles into a huge, snarling bear.

Daemons that don't settle- they're wrong. They're _wrong_. They're disconnected and broken, reflect things like insanity and madness and the inability to control oneself, and LaBarge's unsettled daemon _suits_ him, as wrong as it is.

"Astraea!" D'Artagnan says sharply, his eyes remaining trained on LaBarge as he warns, "don't."

Astraea laughs a rich, lovely laugh. "You know me, Charles," she says back, bending like she's battle ready. "I never do as I'm told."

And then, with a ferocious snarl, she attacks the bear's face straight on, clawing and snapping and ripping at his eyes, golden dust immediately beginning to stream from them in rivulets that vaguely resemble tears.

For a moment, both d'Artagnan and LaBarge are stunned, their weapons dropping in shock as they stand side by side, their quarrel forgotten as they watch the fight that's unfolding before them. Then moment passes like it's molasses; LaBarge and d'Artagnan are both jerked from their surprise and viciously thrown back into the the recommencing skirmish without preamble. Both humans are affected by their daemon's actions: LaBarge hesitates minutely as d'Artagnan's determination reaches a fever pitch in his chest, golden dust erupting all around them, creating a film that separates the four of them from the rest of the world.

In the end LaBarge simply gives up on his sword, throwing it to the ground and reaching towards the Gascon with stained, greedy hands, like he's going to grasp d'Artagnan by the throat and bodily break him.

D'Artagnan doesn't give him the chance. Instead, the younger man slips from LaBarge's grasp as easily as he would have were he water. He grasps LaBarge by the shoulder and pivots, flipping their bodies, and with a grunt of effort wrenches his sword up and stabs through LaBarge's stomach with a squelching, wet sound, gritting his teeth as LaBarge bends double and stumbles into him, his voice pitched low as he whispers in LaBarge's ear.

" _That's for the people of Gascony."_

And he lets LaBarge fall.

LaBarge's daemon does not explode into a million dust particles like a common daemon might upon their human's death, nor does it unravel and stream off like Alexandre's did. It simply freezes where it stands, quiet surprise flickering across its face before its legs give out and it collapses to the ground, fazing into dust before impact.

There's an immediate lull of quiet in the absence of singing metal, a dip in time when d'Artagnan just stands. Astraea comes trotting back to d'Artagnan's side, covered in LaBarge's daemon's dust, licking her chops. D'Artagnan looks down at her.

"Hello, dear one," he says to her, and she looks up at him.

"Hello," she says, and it's like they're meeting one another again for the first time, something simple and heavy and right settling deep in his chest, like a bone that had been slotted out of place finally aligning.

The moment passes but the feeling sticks, reassuringly familiar from a time long ago, and though he and Astraea stand apart he feels closer to her than he has since his father died.

"Bravo, d'Artagnan," the King says and delightedly announces, "I hereby declare the Musketeer regiment the winners!" Then he begins clapping, the crowd falteringly following suit, perhaps off-put by the dead man lying face down in the middle of the arena.

The Inseparables approach, Eris soaring off of Athos' shoulder to perch on d'Artagnan's, nipping his ear. "You did well," she tells him, casually ignoring the taboo as she speaks and touches him, and Astraea laughs again, loud and merry as she skips around Athos' legs.

Eris swoops back to Athos' shoulder after a moment, apparently suddenly aware that she's making a scene by touching d'Artagnan so flippantly, though no one really seems to be paying attention and instead are listening to the King as he explains that the reward money is returning to the palace treasury. That's alright. D'Artagnan realizes now that he needs it very little.

The King slides down from his seat, striding towards d'Artagnan with his daemon in his arms; d'Artagnan bows, and he's amused when Astraea's tail swishes regally as she follows. Straightening, d'Artagnan and Astraea meet the King's gaze head on, sure of themselves, comforted.

Louis, when he speaks, sounds curiously serious. "You defended your Captain with great heroism today. I admire loyalty more than any other virtue." A flickering hope lights in d'Artagnan's chest that roars to life when the King adds, "please kneel."

So shocked is he that for a moment, he remains where he is, and Astraea irritably restrains from nipping at his fingers in impatience.

Athos advises wryly, "get on your knees before he changes his mind."

D'Artagnan, too awed to do anything but, lowers himself to his knees, face bowed. He's waited his whole life for this; he's about to honor his father's name, about to fulfill the dream he's had since he was a boy. Astraea, for once equally as speechless, bows once again for lack of anything else to do.

"I hereby commission you into my regiment of Musketeers. May you serve it always with the same distinction that I witnessed today."

D'Artagnan rises, and is overwhelmed.

It's Astraea who moves first with a delighted cry, dancing over to Kaelyn and rubbing herself all along the other daemon's legs, purring like she's a kitten and not a fox. Without direction d'Artagnan turns and embraces Aramis, falling into waiting arms in astonished disbelief, the pauldron on his shoulder burning as he moves and hugs Porthos, who claps him proudly on the back and chuckles along with him in joy, Brinley and Astraea engaging in playful swats at their feet.

With Astraea too occupied to greet Eris, d'Artagnan loses his nerve and ends up merely shaking Athos' hand, but it's enough, and Athos smiles a genuine, bright smile and it's so much, it means so much.

"Well done, d'Artagnan," Tréville says, something like fondness shining in his eyes when he continues, "I'm proud to have you under my command." D'Artagnan knows he means it, and it's almost too much once more, but thankfully Astraea is still at his side and doesn't try to rub against Eliah as d'Artagnan grabs Tréville's hand.

"Thank you," he says breathlessly, disbelievingly still. "Thank you so much."

Astraea laughs again, a joyous laugh, and leaps into d'Artagnan's arms, and licks his cheek.

"Hello, dear one," she says, and her ears flatten in something akin to shyness, and d'Artagnan is all at once inexplicably aware that he loves her beyond words, and he laughs too, and smiles a radiant smile.

"Hello," he says, and he means _welcome home._

**Author's Note:**

> D'Artagnan- Astraea: "star"; Astraea was the Greek goddess of justice and innocence, now the constellation Virgo. Originally a fennec fox that changed into a red fox. Foxes represent agility, quick thinking, cleverness, and perseverance. Negatively, foxes represent deception, stubbornness, and the refusal to acknowledge mistakes.
> 
> Porthos- Brinley: "Burnt meadow"; a honey badger. Honey badgers represent determination, strong will, independence and confidence. Negatively, badgers represent violence, aggression, and the inability to let down defenses.
> 
> Aramis- Kaelyn: "purity"; a white-tailed deer. Deer represent grace, swiftness, mercy, watchfulness, and spirituality. Negatively deer represent timidness, fear, and vulnerability.
> 
> Athos- Eris: "strife". Eris was the Greek Goddess of Discordia, latin for "discord"; a peregrine falcon. Falcons represent determination, freedom, intensity, and clearness of sight. Negatively falcons represent arrogance and superiority.
> 
> Constance- Quinn: "wise". A river otter. Otters represent joy, agility, energy, creativity, devotion and friendship. Negatively, otters represent inability to stand up for your beliefs and a willingness to simply 'go with the flow'.
> 
> Milady- Eoin (o-wen): "God is gracious". A bobcat. Bobcats represent cunning, intellect, awareness, and strategy. Negatively they represent isolation, manipulation, and distance between relationships.
> 
> Queen Anne- Emery: "brave". An ocelot. Ocelots represent the ability to see clearly, healing, connections with nature and other beings that go unseen by other animals, the ability to exist in two places at once, friendship, and fierceness. Negatively, ocelots represent solitude.
> 
> Alexandre d'Artagnan- Quasale: A finch. Finch represent joy, variety, protectiveness, appreciation, honoring resources, and enjoying the journey.
> 
> Treville- Eliah: A cougar. Cougars represent power, intuition, resolve, leadership and assertiveness, protection. Negatively, cougars represent anger and aggressiveness.
> 
> Vadim- Narnicali: A coyote. Coyotes often symbolize jokesters and represent things like adaptability. They cause chaos, illusion that only they can reveal the truth to, and they have a paradoxical nature. They also represent the ability to play your resources.
> 
> Marsac- Malikha: From a lion to a jackal. Lions represent wisdom, power, dignity, courage, and justice; negatively, they represent ferocity and domination. Jackals are primarily associated with desolation, but can also symbolize mistrust.
> 
> Additional Daemons:
> 
> Flea- Lukia: A Labrador. Labradors represent acceptance, emotional healing, empathy, compassion, adaptability, strength, devotion, and versatility.
> 
> Comtesse De Larroque- Camer: A white crane. Primarily they represent freedom and grace.
> 
> King Louis- Faqueza: "Weakness". A puffin. I have no reason in making Louis' daemon a puffin except that to me, it vaguely looks like him.
> 
> Thomas- Amelade: Amelade would have settled as a robin. Robins represent joy, hope, renewal, happiness, contentment, rejuvenation, new beginnings, and a bright future.
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: The idea of daemons changing is not my own- that belongs to the lovely Zihna, who wrote a daemon AU for the Walking Dead over on AO3. If you'd like to check them out, the story is called "I followed fires", and there are a few of them in the series that they've made. It's fantastic, and if you're a walking dead fan, I strongly suggest it.
> 
> Alright everyone, that's it! I am always flattered and amazed when you guys take the time out to analyze my work and always thankful for any sort of review. I absolutely love reading your interpretations of my writing and what you think, so you make that review as long as you want! Don't hold back! I enjoy every word.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed, and please drop me a comment on your thoughts!


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